Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
I’d gone from near-poverty to rich beyond my wildest dreams. From a bartender, to a CEO. From an orphan to a daughter. From so incredibly alone, to surrounded by so many people who loved me, and who I loved. From single, to a wife and mother.
There had been so many ups and downs.
Our wedding. The birth of our children. Birthdays and Christmases and Easters and Halloweens and random Tuesday nights full of cycle breaking, of the sounds of happy children laughing and playing.
The lows had been low, though, too.
We got seven extra years with my father, and I was thankful for each and every single one of those days, and overjoyed to see him find adventure and love. Before, eventually, he passed.
Demi had bounced in and out of our lives a lot in those early days, too tortured by her own demons to be comfortable in a happy family.
But, eventually, she found some peace, some stability, and some joy.
As it turned out, my father had been very right about that one thing.
That joy was the only thing worth leaning into.
I’d taken those words to heart.
I’d built a life upon it.
“I’m always down for a SlapShot to bring back old times,” Dezi offered.
“I think there is going to be enough pain tonight,” I said, as our two oldest started to circle each other on their ring made of gymnasium mats they’d used in the basement to tumble when they were younger.
Now, apparently, they were ring mats. And our children thought fighting would be a jolly good time.
“What are the chances that either of them have a mouthguard in?” I asked.
Yes, I was the mom who resorted to buying things like that. Since keeping our children from tussling seemed an impossible feat. And if they were going to do it, I’d rather they did it somewhat safely.
“I mean, the two youngest don’t have their permanent teeth in yet. There’s not much to lose,” Dezi reasoned.
“Oh, shit,” I said, pointing when Dezi looked over at me.
And right there, hiding underneath a boxwood, waiting for his chance to strike, was Macaroni the Rooster. Named, clearly, by the children. Though in their defense, their father had listed about a dozen food-related names, and they’d jumped on their favorite.
Macaroni was an absolute menace.
A mistake since we’d never really set out to have a rooster. But by the time we figured out that he was a boy, we’d already committed to him.
That said, when the little bastard got himself in a mood, he chased any one of us around the yard.
He especially liked to make a beeline for the kids if they were being loud or obnoxious. And since they were our kids, that meant almost all the time.
“Incoming!” Dezi called as Macaroni charged out of the bushes toward the boys.
The oldest two turned and ran off in opposite directions, one hopping up into the trampoline enclosure, the other scaling the jungle gym.
And our third one, our sweet, angel of a kid who must have been switched at the hospital or something, just calmly walked up behind Macaroni, scooped him up, and walked him back into the barnyard, then deposited him over the fence where he immediately got distracted by his hens and lost all his attitude.
“That one,” Dezi said as his arm went around me.
“I know,” I agreed. “He definitely didn’t get all that soft and sweet from me.”
“And he would rather eat an apple than a donut,” Dezi said, sounding disgusted.
“I know. An unpardonable sin.”
“That one, however,” Dezi said as the middle kid leaped down from the top of the jungle gym directly onto his brother’s back, “that one is all me.”
“If I have to clean up their mess, I don’t want to cook tonight,” I told Dezi, leaning into him as he wrapped me up tighter.
“Am I hearing that we are going to go into town, hit up every to-go place?”
“No, but clearly I can’t object to that now.”
“Boys,” Dezi called. “Food! Car!”
And I shit you not, the three of them turned and ran toward the driveway like we hadn’t fed them in days.
We walked through town, eating greasy food after greasy food, listening to the boys babble about their classes at the local self-defense gym, and what video games they wanted to play when they had their sleepover with their cousins that weekend.
“Still there,” Dezi said, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind, and resting his head on my shoulder.
I knew what he meant.
And I’d seen it a thousand times.
But still my head raised.
I love Theo.